


Drift Compatible

by bodysnatch3r



Series: Into the Drift [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During their first test run, something happens in the cockpit of their jaeger, Dragon Fury, that neither Thorin nor Dwalin can ignore, but they're drift compatible, and that's all that matters.<br/>Thorin wishes they weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift Compatible

His neck hurts, and he knows there's no way he'll ever be able to get back to sleep, at least for that night.

Dwalin simply sits in the cafeteria, mixing what could maybe be chocolate pudding with rainbow sprinkles (but looks more like toxic waste) and watching it as it unceremoniously plops off of the spoon and back into its plastic container. The rest of the room is completely empty- it's late, he doesn't even know what time it actually is. He's not actually hungry, but he needs to give himself something to do.

That something becomes a small quivering smile and a shake of the head, and then there's footsteps.

" _Oh_."

Thorin stands at the top of the stairs and quickly turns around the minute he sees him, but " _Wait_." stops him in his tracks. His shoulders sag, he turns around and he looks  _terrified_ , hair escaping his messy bun, hands twisting, gripping for purchase on each other as if it could give him some kind of stability. Of security.

"Come here?" Dwalin asks, gesturing at the spot next to him. Thorin seems fidgety. 

" _Please_."

He hunches his shoulders, seems to think for a moment about the shrug that he then does. Every single movement is precisely calculated. 

Which is when Dwalin notices he's barefoot.

"I don't want to be a bother."

"You _know_ we can't let anything come between us when we're out there."

Blunt, as always, in ways Thorin's always found uncomfortable.

"I don't-"

"If we don't talk about it now, it'll tear us to pieces. We're _teammates_ , remember?"

Thorin sighs, stares at his toes and buries his teeth in his bottom lip. Dwalin catches himself staring at the way his t-shirt wraps itself around his shoulders and the way his neck tenses when he moves, dark, long hair already swirling with gray. Thorin brushes hair out of his face for what feels like the millionth time and wearily makes his way to where Dwalin's sitting. He eyes the pudding and smirks, nervous, "Is it good?"

"Absolutely revolting. Wanna taste?"

"I'll pass."

"You can sit, if you want. I won't kick you from under the table or anything."

There's a hint of obnoxious mockery in Dwalin's words, and Thorin finds himself sitting across from him. It takes him a few seconds to build up the courage to do so: every inch of his mind is screaming to turn away and run back to his room, slam and lock the door behind himself. His heart throbs through his throat: he never thought he'd be so scared of tattooed arms and a shit-eating grin, but he is, and the thought of feeling his brain mingle with the other's again is even scarier. There are  _things_ no one else is supposed to know, hopes and dreams that tear through him and make his thoughts blister, and he thought they'd be safe within himself, but apparently locking things away is not enough. He felt Dwalin dig through him and he felt his surprise when he found what he did, his own shame, the way he'd nearly followed the rabbit but had managed to drag himself back into the here and now just in time before anything bad had happened. But then they'd shared an embarrassed, awry gaze before the drift had been interrupted and Thorin had torn himself out of his gear and hurriedly rushed away the minute he'd been freed, cheeks blazing. Dwalin had stared at the wall in front of him, controls slowly switching off, and said:

"Well at least that explains why we're so compatible."

Which brings them to the utterly embarrasing situation that's happening now. Thorin stares at Dwalin and the silence hits them like a ton of bricks. Dwalin mixes the pudding like a five year old schoolboy would and Thorin does everything in his power to avoid his gaze. Unfortunately, his eyes land on the other's lips, and God are they hypnotizing.

"So."

The word Dwalin utters falls into nothingness, but he still smirks when Thorin averts his eyes as quickly as possible. Oakenshield starts wrestling his own hands again, webby fingers chasing after each other and tugging. Dwalin can't help himself staring at them, at the snap of knuckles cracking, Thorin bends his wrists and does the same to them. Hands chase after each other, fingers hiding and digging and tugging at loose skin around his nails. He's nevrous. Thorin's nervous.

(They both are).

"What happened in the. Jaeger. What happened in Dragon Fury. I mean. What you saw. It doesn't-"

"Mean anything?"

"No." Thorin lies.

"Oh?"

There's the ring of metal against metal as Dwalin puts his spoon down and then, suddenly, he's grabbing those maddening, frantic fingers and stilling the other's hands. Thorin's eyes widen. He swallows: his saliva feels like glass against an already tight Adam's apple. Dwalin slips his thumb against Thorin's wrist, and Thorin's pulse falters and trips, and so does his badly masked breath.

Thorin feels his saliva taste as bitter as can be, and, despite himself, Dwalin's pulse starts to crash through his own ears. It mixes with Thorin's perfectly, and there's a flash of bamboo against bamboo again, the _clack_ of wood resonating, Thorin's muscles tensing as he wards off Dwalin's blows in what is almost maniacal rhythmic perfection, hair falling in front of his eyes as he flips around and stops his stick an inch away from Dwalin's neck, " _Gotcha_ ," Thorin had hissed, lips curling in a knowing little smirk. Which was exactly when Dwalin had flipped around, grabbed Thorin, managed to still him against the floor. And then grey had met blue- smirks flipped, Dwalin had winked: "I win." 

" _Almost_ ," and Thorin had thrown him off and pushed himself back to his feet, weapons clashing once more, one two, one two, one two three. They were  _dancing_ , breath hot, muscles arching and tensing and unclenching and twisting, Dwalin's back suddenly against his, Thorin pirouetting and moving an inch away from yet another blow, still, suddenly, feet skitting to a halt, ready to attack again. Which was when Dwalin had quickly flipped around, looked Pentecost square in the eye and said: "We're drift compatible."

And after knowing him for all his life, Thorin had felt absolute panic hit him. The same kind of slow-churning, slow-burning panic he was keeping at bay right now:  _he cannot know_. He cannot know. But then he'd known, and Thorin had tried to shy away from Dwalin's inevitable prying gaze as it dissected and tore through and opened each and every tiny box in his mind, from Frerin's death to his sister getting pregnant the first time to _falling in love with the absolute worst person_ , and Thorin had done the same, or tried to, in the panic-inducing flow of his own thoughts he'd found himself trapped in. How he'd torn himself from it, neither of them knows (but Thorin fears and deep down is aware that most of the push came from Dwalin). They're _drift compatible_ , and that's all that matters.

Thorin wishes they weren't. 

Right now, he feels every part of him snap and shatter and recompose itself as Dwalin's fingers brush against his wrist. Dwalin's eyes are a shade of grey and a shade of blue, a deadly mix matching his scruffy beard and tattoos, ink etched deep within his skin cells, becoming a vital part of himself: a story drawn along a wrist and up a shoulder, down his back, across his chest, tattoos Thorin knows Dwalin now knows he wishes he could kiss and lick and bite. Which is why he feels the blush claw at his face mercilessly, and he lowers his eyes because grey digs just a bit too deep within his own blue. His loose strand of long, wavy hair falls in front of his eyes: Thorin couldn't be more grateful for it.

But then, all of a sudden, a rough hand brushes against his cheek, the grip on one of his wrists is gone. Dwalin's cupping his face, a little enigmatic smile traced along his lips. The scar running from his right temple over the bridge of his nose catches Thorin's interest like it's always done, and a few minutes must have passed since he's sat down but they feel like ages, as if his heartbeats have slown with his breathing. He is heavy, he realizes. His bones are made of lead, and he is tired.

After all, he's been willingly violated and dug through, a mingling of minds that's rocked both of them to their core. He suddenly realizes how comfortable the hand feels against his cheek, and Thorin swallows again, and it feels right, and he is still so, so, so, so scared, but it doesn't matter. 

He opens his mouth to speak but Dwalin's already leaning across the table.

"Don't say a thing," he whispers. "I already know."

And then their lips meet, in the crushing semi-darkness of an empty cafeteria, and Dwalin tastes of rust, of sand, of blood. And Thorin tastes of ice and smoke.

They're _drift compatible_.

And that's all that matters.


End file.
